


Grappling

by Chichirinoda



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:36:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5466893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chichirinoda/pseuds/Chichirinoda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce is determined to have his vengeance upon his parents' killer, but it's not as easy as he'd like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grappling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nocturnal08](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnal08/gifts).



For most citizens of Gotham, Crime Alley and the blocks around it were like a terrestrial black hole from which only the occasional scream and rattle of gunfire could escape. Anyone who ventured too close to its orbit would surely be sucked into its fetid corridors, probably never to escape - certainly not with their jewels and mental health status fully intact.

Bruce Wayne could attest to that from painful, personal experience. Yet here he was, crouched above that precise spot, his breath hot and over-moist in the balaclava he wore pulled down over his face, and too-rapid in his own ears. His fingers were cramping around the grappling gun he clutched against his chest, and his legs were beginning to get sore from the position he was in

But he couldn’t move. He refused to. 

His breathing was rapid not from fear, but anticipation. He had no intention of going anywhere until the night’s objective was complete.

On the rooftop where he squatted, Bruce was completely above all of the squalid goings-on, safe and powerful in his lofty vantage point above the stench and grime of the mean streets of the worst parts of Gotham. From here he could see everything, analyze each person who passed by to determine if they were the mark he was looking for. He knew crooks and gangsters scurried below - but so did the occasional normal person - and he had to wait for the perfect moment. The perfect opportunity to complete his mission and return home victorious.

_I’ll show him. I can handle this. Alfred will understand this time._

It had all begun earlier this evening, just after Bruce had had his supper, and Alfred was occupied with clearing away the dishes and cleaning up after their meal. Alfred had committed to doing another training session with Bruce before bed, but a particularly stubborn stewpot had kept the butler at the sink long enough that Bruce had - it had to be admitted - become bored.

The house where Bruce had lived his whole life was as familiar to him as his own hands, yet it was large enough that even he wasn’t certain of the the contents of every room and closet. He had gone for a wander, intending to return to the den to meet with his butler in twenty or thirty minutes. And on that ramble, he had opened a random door, only to find a closet behind.

At first, he had merely noted that this particular closet was somewhat neglected, a few motes of dust having landed on the knick knacks and such stored in there - mostly ancient Christmas wrapping and seasonal decorations a full six months from being used again. He decided to mention it to Alfred, who was normally successful in his ongoing war against the dust constantly encroaching upon the Wayne household. 

But before he could leave, he noted an odd pattern in the dust, as if a slight breeze had swept it away from a certain corner at the back.

Upon his curious exploration, a panel slid aside to reveal a treasure trove of weaponry - bullets, pistols, and some objects less obviously for use to defend an American household, such as throwing stars, and a small box that proved to contain lock picks. 

Bruce avoided the guns and bullets - even the sight of them made his stomach twist and his ears ring - but his eager fingers landed on the most interesting object in there - a sort of pistol-like device that wasn’t a pistol at all. It had a coil of rope attached to it and a multi-pronged grapple sticking out of the barrel.

It was unexpectedly heavy, and Bruce grunted as he lifted it. At first, it drooped and threatened to fall right out of his hands, but he clutched it to his chest, thinking of how Selina could escape from difficult scrapes by climbing so nimbly up to the rooftops of Gotham. Bruce didn’t see himself ever becoming so lithe and nimble with only his fingers and toes to help him, but a grappling gun like this could not only help someone to escape to high ground, but he could even see the rope being useful to entangle and apprehend a criminal.

He had returned to the kitchen, hands full of massive weapon, and head filled with fantasies. “Alfred, look what I’ve found! Will you train me to use it tonight?”

It hadn’t exactly been a question - though it was phrased as one - but nevertheless, Alfred took a long look at him and treated it as a request, by denying it. “Are you mad?” he grumbled, still up to his elbows in soapy hot water and looking distinctly grouchy. “You can barely hold the thing. If you fire it, you’ll go arse over tea-kettle, and probably break your back. What are you going to use it for, anyway?”

Bruce was distinctly put-off by this refusal, but rallied persuasively. “I can hold it just fine, I just need practice to get stronger. I could use it to catch criminals without harming them, tying them up for the police, neat as anything. Come now, Alfred, it’s perfect.”

“Criminal _s_?” Alfred returned, emphasizing the plural. “I thought the point of all this was to catch your parents’ killer.”

Bruce only directed towards him a steely and intimidating gaze - he’d been practicing that in the mirror. For some reason, Alfred was unmoved, and turned away to focus on his labours. “Put that back where you found it. We’re practicing the forms again tonight.”

“ _Again_?” They had been practicing ‘forms’ - forcing Bruce to go through repetitive movements and hold awkward positions for hours at a time - for weeks. He couldn’t see what the point of it all was, and sometimes suspected that Alfred only insisted upon it so as to put him off and delay his learning something truly useful. It was unfortunate, but Bruce was growing quite certain that Alfred would never be committed to his mission of revenge as Bruce was.

So Bruce stomped out of the kitchen, ensuring that Alfred was able to hear the full measure of his discontent. And instead of obediently returning the grappler to whence he’d found it, he instead put on his shabbiest coat and shoes and headed out of the house, with the grappler an unfortunately large bulge under his arm. 

At a general supply store, he had found a black balaclava - well, nearly black, it had a panda bear on the forehead, but he chose not to notice it. No doubt, his quarry would be sufficiently cowed by Bruce’s grappler that he wouldn’t even notice the fashion faux pas. And besides, the purchase wasn’t for looks, but to ensure that his identity was hidden, and it would serve well enough for that purpose. 

He suspected the proprietor noticed the bulge under his coat, and he looked reprovingly at Bruce. In a moment of weakness and embarrassment, Bruce grabbed a handful of candybars and placed them on top of the balaclava. He knew it did nothing to hide it, truly, but he felt better having it be mostly out of sight, and besides the bars might serve as good sustenance for the stakeout ahead.

“Nice coat,” said the proprietor in a gravelly cigarette-ravaged voice, as he picked up each item in his gnarled fingers to scan it. “What’s a kid like you doing in the Shades at this time ‘a night?”

Bruce was somewhat confused by the compliment to his dress. The coat was at least two years old, somewhat the worse for wear, though it was made of angora wool and had once been fine. It was, of course, too hot for the season, even though the sun had set, and he was sweating. It wasn’t anything one might consider to be ‘nice’, though. Not with the pilling areas where it had rubbed, and a missing button near the collar. Taking the man to task for it would only draw attention to himself, though.

“Thank you, sir,” he said politely. “I’m only passing through on my way elsewhere.”

“’O course you are,” the man said, passing him a bag containing his purchases. “Well, don’t get yourself into any trouble.”

“I shall avoid trouble assiduously,” Bruce assured the man, and headed out of the shop.

He had no intention of getting into trouble, of course. Quite the opposite. He intended only to bring trouble to someone deserving tonight.

And so he now found himself, with the moon high overhead - thankfully, no more than a thin sliver that wouldn’t risk revealing Bruce in his hiding spot - and a small forest of candy wrappers around him.

He had been there now long enough that discouragement had begun to overwhelm his determination. His arms ached, his fingers hurt, and his legs were starting to spasm. He shifted slightly to relieve the cramp, and gritted his teeth, leaning a little further over the edge. He hadn’t brought a watch, but it had to be past midnight, and Alfred had probably engaged the GCPD to find him by now.

The twinge of guilt at that thought nearly sent him packing up his things and returning home, though defeat was a sour pill to swallow. But at that moment, he heard the rapid sound of running footsteps. He shifted quickly and leaned over the edge to look, and spotted a man in a trench coat, his arms full of what was clearly a woman’s purse.

It couldn’t be a more perfect scenario. The man was clearly a cutpurse, and was fleeing from his victim. There was no mistaking him for an innocent citizen, and there was no one else around.

Bruce acted instantly.

He rose up, a shadow in the night, and aimed the grappling gun towards the man. He knew he had only one shot, but he had played it over and over again in his mind, and he knew just what to do. He had not had an opportunity to practice, but he was certain of his strategy.

He fired, and the grapple soared down, just in front of the man. It stuck in the concrete and tightened. The thief didn’t have time to stop, or react to the sound or sight of the strange thing. He yelled and his foot hooked in the rope, and he went sprawling on the ground.

Bruce didn’t actually see any of this happen himself. Though he was confident that the thief had just been presented with a whole host of problems, Bruce was occupied with his own problems at that moment.

When the grappling gun fired, Bruce was unprepared for the kickback. Furthermore, he was unprepared for the way his legs would not be able to compensate as well for the kickback, after hours spent in an uncomfortable crouched position, working muscles unused to such exertion. After all, he had not practiced the forms Alfred had been teaching him for long enough.

The grappling gun bucked in his hand and slammed painfully back into his chest, unbraced by his arms alone. He stumbled, right at the edge of the building, and dropped the gun, which thankfully hooked itself around a chimney pipe, thus jamming it in place. The rope retracted once the hook had caught, and the gun was stuck fast, tripping the thief.

And Bruce fell off the roof.

He screamed, and scrabbled for purchase, his legs hanging over thin air five stories above Crime Alley. 

A small, strong hand shot out of the darkness, and grabbed him by the wrist. “What are you _doing_?” gasped a thin, high voice, slightly strained. “Hold on, you’re too heavy for me to lift!”

“Selina?” Bruce gasped, looking up into the face of his only real friend in the world, so stunned by her sudden arrival that he almost forgot that he was in mortal peril. 

“Climb!” she wheezed, adding her other hand to the one straining at his wrist, and desperately firming her grip. She was braced against the edge of the roof, but most of the weight was taken by her nimble hands. “Hurry, will you?”

She wasn’t strong enough to pull him up on her own, but with her help, he managed to dig his shoes into the brickwork and push himself back up onto the roof.

They both lay panting for a moment, before a soft moan from below reached Bruce’s ears. He pushed himself up. “The thief!”

“He knocked himself out on a garbage bin,” Selina informed him, still lying spreadeagled on the surface of the roof. 

Bruce peered over the edge again, heart pounding, and saw that she was quite correct. The man still lay prone on the pavement, the purse a few feet from his outstretched hand. Though he hadn’t yet moved, by the way he was groaning, it seemed he might come to any moment. Bruce hastened to the fire escape and made his way down as quickly as he could.

Selina was already standing over the thief by the time Bruce leaped down from the bottom rung of the ladder. Her arms were folded and she regarded the man with a furrowed brow.

“Help me tie him up,” Bruce begged, grabbing the rope from the grappling gun and beginning to bind the unconscious man’s arms. 

“Why? And why are you wearing that?” She waved at the mask over his face.

“Because he’s a criminal! I’m going to call the police to pick him up. And so he can’t identify me later,” Bruce exclaimed, impatiently.

She stared, then gave a soft, snorting sound. It might have been laughter. Maybe that was just how Selina laughed.

But she did help him bind the man, wrapping the rope around him until he was trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“How long were you watching me for?” Bruce asked as he picked up the purse and set it beside the thief. The police would need it as evidence, and then would no doubt return it to its owner. 

“Practically the whole time,” she said, smirking faintly. “I knew you were doing something stupid.”

“I wasn’t—”

She prodded him in the chest. “You were. Now go call the police and get home, hero.”

And with that, she swung herself up onto the fire escape, and vanished, with only a few more words floating through the night air towards him.

“Cute hat.”

Bruce’s pride was stung, but overall he counted the event as a qualified success. He hid the balaclava, grappling gun, and unseasonable coat behind a dumpster, then made his way to a payphone, from which he called the police. He did his best to disguise his voice as he called in the tip, but before he had even finished the call, he spotted Jim Gordon cruising along the street in his unmarked car. He hung up the phone and hurried towards the car.

“Detective Gordon,” he called, and Gordon slammed on the brakes at the sight of him. The police officer sprang out of the car.

“Good god, Bruce, what are you doing down here?”

Bruce hesitated, then gave Gordon his best poker face - he’d been practicing that, too. “I, uh, got lost. A man just ran into that alley there with a woman’s purse—”

“Never mind that,” Gordon interrupted, catching Bruce by the shoulder. “I’ve got to get you home.”

“But Detective, I really think—”

Gordon steered him towards the car. “He’ll be long gone by now.”

“Perhaps if you could just… check,” Bruce said weakly as he was bundled into the back seat. “I’ll stay in the car. I swear.”

Gordon gave him a hard, suspicious look. “You’ll stay in the car?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jim Gordon paused, then sighed. “Okay, I’ll look. But _stay_.”

Bruce stayed, and believed he did a good job of hiding his thrill as Gordon emerged from the alley with the purse and the handcuffed thief in tow. He hastened to assure Gordon that he wouldn’t mind waiting while the detective returned his catch to the police station, but Gordon insisted upon taking him straight home first. The thief was still half-insensible and had a large goose-egg on his forehead that was beginning to swell, so Bruce figured he probably wasn’t in a fit state to understand his rights or give a confession in any case.

Though Alfred did not welcome him home so much as give him a tongue lashing, Bruce believed he saw the tiniest glimmer of pride in the older man’s eyes once Bruce had apologized sufficiently and then told him the story of what he had done.

He wouldn’t mourn the balaclava’s loss, but the grappling gun was probably also lost forever. Well, perhaps that was all right. Bruce had decided that Alfred was likely right that it was an unwieldy weapon for him at this point, and perhaps there was something to learning the basics first, at that.

Still, one criminal was off the streets, for now, and that was the important thing.


End file.
